


You Struggle Against Your Fear. I Admire That.

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [33]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Sam, Angst, Bottom Dean, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Dean, Scared Sam, Sick Dean, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scents at his pups in hunger, and they’re sleeping too. He thanks every god he’s aware of they aren’t dead, that he hasn’t lost everything that’s ever mattered to him.</p><p>In which Dean is struggling with the aftermath of the attack, Sam is coming to terms with who he is and receives some long-awaited news.</p><p>Sam POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Struggle Against Your Fear. I Admire That.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Bane's line in the comic, Crocodile Tears, by Chuck Dixon.

Dean hasn’t said a word in a week.

Sam flutters about uselessly, propping him up on pillows, bringing him soup, brushing stray hair away from his face.

His brother may as well be a breathing corpse.

He’d taken him straight to Dr. Lee, when they returned home, and it had been hard. Understatement, but it had been almost impossible.

Sam had tried to revive Ruby, make her give him some explanation for what had just happened, but Dean hadn’t been getting nutrients for about two days, and Ruby was a big girl. She could take care of herself, she’d come to Sam when she was ready.

Sam thinks about the way she held her body, can hardly remember her screaming, but it’s only a backdrop to the moment. He doesn’t recall anything but Dean, and the demon that held him. Alpha-space, where the only color was red, the only scent was blood.

Sam can tell you what it’s like to merge with your wolf.

Hotwiring a car had extended some difficulties, especially due to the fact that Dean was non-responsive, passed out almost immediately after Sam had exited the jail.

He’d picked the lock on an old Camry and deposited his brother in the backseat, started the car just the way John had demonstrated when he was twelve. Dean had a fever and John took Sam out for groceries, Impala wasn’t suitable for the icy road conditions, and John’s Ford wouldn’t start in the cold.

Reminded him it was only for necessities, and Sam thinks that John would roll over in his grave could he see what equated an emergency to Sam now.

Nine hour drive back to Sioux Falls, breaking every traffic law on the return journey. Dean woke up once, sat straight up in disorientation, thin fingers cupped possessively around the swell of his stomach. Sam knows Dean was having a nightmare, could feel him moving around restlessly, small whimpers the only sound his brother would emit.

“Dean. Dean, you’re safe. We’re in the car, and I’m taking us home, alright?”

His brother doesn’t respond, verbally or nonverbally, and it’s Sam’s first clue that something is amiss, that things in his life are about to become infinitely more difficult. Sam carries Dean inside, angles his body away so he can’t see the mess congealing in the kitchen.

Sam can smell it though, decaying flesh, maggots and rot, and his Alpha growls with it, primal satisfaction in the kill. Sam tucks Dean’s head closer into the crook of his arm, and Dean doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t make a small noise of satisfaction, or burrow closer of his own accord.

Jess was pre-med in school, and she used to use him as her test-dummy, apologetically poking him with needles, popping his veins with her middle finger so it would plump up, become easier to locate. She’d wince when she pricked him, glance up worriedly, tuck long curls behind pink ears.

_Does that not hurt, Sam?_

Sam’s face, incredulous, and then he shaped it into something more normal, screwed up his forehead in mock pain.

_A little, but I’m not worried about it_

Sam huffs out a laugh at that. He didn’t even feel it when Jess pierced him, pumping saline solution into his bloodstream. Was that pain, is that the human approximation of grief? Sam learned early on not to cry about skinned knees, broken wrists at age ten weren’t coddled.

Don’t they know that he was bred of agony?

Sam wishes he’d asked more questions of her, become more medically astute. She’d helped him get more proficient at stitches, his were tighter and longer lasting than his brother’s, but he had never paid attention to needles.

Knows what it’s like to be purposefully wounded, never saw any point in learning how to do it himself.

He regrets that now, because he wants to hook Dean back up to the machine, provide him with all the nutrients Dean won’t accept for himself, soothe his pups.

But they aren’t responsive to him, their scents don’t light up when he comes around, and he feels like he would be intruding if he tried to scent-mark, rubbed his essence on his kids. Alpha’s pride is wounded. Sam can recognize that, but he’s also concerned about what Dean saw.

Dean’s never seen him like that.

Sam’s never seen himself in that regard, and now his brother isn’t even here to talk to him about it, set his mind at ease.

_not a monster, Sam_

but that’s a lie, and he knows it now. He sits beside their bed, focused on Dean’s sleeping form, the little mound under the covers that makes up his children. Dean’s breathing is faint, not as forceful as Sam would like, and his color is low, but he maintained consciousness until he fell asleep, and Sam thinks that counts for something.

He remains there all night, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, rests his head on his hands and wonders what it would be like to belong to a beneficent God.

Dean stirs first in the morning, and Sam turns red-rimmed eyes to his brother, scoots forward in the chair so that he’s closer to the bed, almost tips over and falls off. “Dean?” His brother rotates to face him, improvement from yesterday, but he makes no effort to speak, and his eyes look sunken in his head, moon craters, no air.

“Dean, baby, I gotta take you to the Clinic. Get you hooked back up, checked out.” Sam wrings his hands together, body slumping in defeat. “I know you don’t wanna see me, man, I get it, but we need to check on the pups, too.” That’s a low blow, Sam knows. There isn’t anything Dean won’t do for his children, he’s hardwired to protect the innocent, at any cost to himself.

He stands, muscles creaking in protest, he hasn’t moved from the bedside in nine hours, and he reaches out for his brother. Dean shudders, pushes his body away from Sam’s, spine smacking against the headboard. A soft cry of pain escapes him at the contact, and then he’s standing, bending down, attempting to tug on his own sweatpants, fingers trembling with the effort.

Sam’s hands flop down at his sides and his entire body quakes.

Dean’s afraid of him.

Alpha whines, turbulence, wind and hail, and Sam presses closed fists against his temples, screws his eyes shut.

_be quiet be quiet be quiet_

When he opens them again, Dean’s gaze is trained on him, naked from the waist up, exposed, nipples slightly pebbled from the chill in the air. There’s concern hovering in Dean’s eyes, and Sam has to look away, he’s not deserving of it.

Dean’s pale in the early morning, Sam can see the vibrant indentation of ribs, as if all the fat in his body has been redirected, pooling in the center of his core. He’s small, for being four months along, two months remaining, and he looks a bit hollow.

Delicate.

His brother is fragile, and he’s noticed before, but not really _noticed._

That’s never been a word he would have used to associate with his brother, but that’s where they are. Dean is vulnerable, and Sam allowed him to be taken, didn’t protect him well enough. Left him alone to care for himself and their unborn children, when it’s a struggle for Dean to dress in the mornings.

Sam doesn’t realize he’s crying until Dean is next to him, swaying on his feet, shirt halfway on his body. Dean’s making aborted sounds in his throat, won’t speak, can’t speak, and he curves his palm over Sam’s cheek, swipes needlessly at the tears collecting there. Sam captures Dean’s hand in his own, scrubs one callused palm across his own face.

Dean is not here for that. Sam will not allow Dean to give of himself further.

“You need any help?” The offer is hard asked, Sam knows that Dean needs space, needs to connect with his pups, re-introduce them to the safety they had lost, but Dean ducks his head, lethargic, holds up his arms like a child, allows Sam to tug the shirt down over his swell. Sam marvels at the way the fabric clings slightly to his brother’s skin.

He longs to rub his fingers all over, press palms into the dip of Dean’s ass and lift, Dean’s face buried in his neck, warm and flustered.

He steps back instead, chest heaving, and Dean looks down, self-consciously, and Sam can see how exhausted he is, to let his defenses slip this much, be an open book Sam can peruse, the level of trust tinged with stained betrayal that Dean is offering.

“M’gonna carry you, alright?”

Dean had nodded, held open his own arms again, and Sam supported him, bridal style, Dean quiet as death against his chest.

Dr. Lee is not pleased to see them, that much is obvious. His face is a mask of stark concern, and he looks at the pallor of Dean’s skin and up at Sam with a formidable amount of anger, and Sam doesn’t have the willpower to respond with appropriate Alpha intensity.

“I think there was a blockage in the tube. He started getting worse two days ago, but I thought it was just a setback, that he would get better, but I don’t think it was feeding him.” He says slowly. “I checked the tubing and I could tell that there wasn’t any circulation--”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat and the doctor takes pity on him, rests one hand on Sam’s shoulder. It’s not the best lie Sam’s ever come up with, in fact, it’s downright weak, but there’s no way to explain that Dean was kidnapped because he’s been out making Faustian deals with the devil.

“Mr. Winchester, please. That’s partially clinical error. He’d been doing well, so we lowered the home checkups to once a week. I see we need to make them more frequent.” Sam nods, bricks on his spine. “I just, I’d like to him home. Get him hooked up again. He’s tired, and all this stress can’t be good for him.”

Dean is unresponsive, and Sam’s palm cradles the side of his head, ensures that it remains tucked into his neck, mobile pillow.

Dr. Lee looks pained, can clearly see the strain that they’re both laboring under, Sam’s hunched in on himself, Alpha is sequestered, inhibits his nature when Dean is visibly ill, natural protection of sorts.

“We can do that. I’ll have the nurse take his vitals at your house.”

Sam glances at his brother, curled in on his side, IV stand tucked as close to the bed as the room will allow. He lets his body crumble then, assured that Dean will be fine

_his body'll rest until it restores enough strength for daily activities, Mr. Winchester_

scents at his pups in hunger, and they’re sleeping too. He thanks every god he’s aware of they aren’t dead, that he hasn’t lost everything that’s ever mattered to him.

“They’re both boys, you know.” Sam jolts in shock, accustomed to the silence Dean shrouds himself in, and he clears his throat, Alpha peeking out in reluctant surprise.

“The pups? They’re boys?” He’s an idiot. Dean just said that, but when he repeats it himself, he can feel the truth of the words. He wants to touch, spoon Dean until his mate is sleeping, kiss every inch of his family, but he restrains his desire, knows Dean would rather be branded than touched by him.

“Was gonna tell you before he took me.” Dean’s voice is a thread of his regular growl, but there’s still fury in it, Sam can feel it collecting, and he sits back involuntarily.

“I’m four months pregnant with your goddamned kids, Sam. The least you could do is tell me the truth. Cause if we’re gonna get kidnapped again I’d like to know.” Dean’s still on his side, completely facing away from Sam, and he’d kill to see his brother’s face, know what he’s thinking, but all he can smell is rage-scent, rogue fire and rain-soaked waves.

“I just wanna have a plan, y’know? Sleeping with the Mag instead of my knife. Better range.” Sam’s fist closes and he slides a palm in his hair, gripping tightly, self-engineered noose.

“Fuck, Dean, you think I wanted this to happen? You think this shit was easy?!”

Dean whirls around, too quickly for Sam’s liking, color bleeding from his face with the rapid motion but he maintains his stance anyway, and Sam stifles a smile, even through the rising panic in his throat.

“You didn’t tell me anything! We fucking _talk_ about this shit, man! Treat it like a goddamned case. You’re hunting something. You’re trying to kill a monster.” Dean’s hands are quivering, and he plucks at the sheets beneath them, and Sam recalls that he changed them recently. They’re blue now.

“I can’t go out there, Sam. I’m a waste of space in here and if you’re trying to save me, then fuck it, I’m in, because I’ve got these damn kids, and if we’re doing anything, we’re doing it together!” Dean flops back against his pillow, both hands cupped around his pregnancy, daggers aimed directly at Sam.

“You’re right.” Sam stands up and lowers himself cautiously onto the opposite side of the bed, away from where Dean is still shivering with rage.

“I thought I could do it alone.” He allows his eyes to sweep over Dean’s supine form, stops at his brother’s chin.

“If there was a way to do it without putting you and the kids in danger, I would. I’d leave you out of everything.” Dean opens his mouth, sucking in air like a vacuum, and Sam holds up a hand, no need for him to waste the energy.

“M’not saying it’s right, Dean, but I’m not trying to make you happy right now, I need to keep you _safe_.”

He tangles his fingers together, slumps minutely. “This is better though, like you said. I’ll tell you everything. Cause leaving you in the dark didn’t do us any favors.”

He leans forward impulsively, presses a large palm against Dean’s stomach and his older brother gasps at the contact, cheeks flooding with color.

He thinks that maybe John Winchester isn’t as dead as he thought. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wee bit of fluff before the next chapter.


End file.
